


Sons of Stone and Wind

by lferion



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Gondor, M/M, Male Friendship, Rohan, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: Boromir and Éomer





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alex_Quine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to Morgynleri and Zana.

Boromir first saw the Calenardhon - Rohan - as a youth of twenty, newly an officer with men under his command, and invested Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor. It spread wide and flat and green before his eyes. Spring teased his nose with sharpness, the still-cold wind stinging his cheeks and murmuring in his ears as it ruffled his horse’s mane and tossed the longer grasses like sea-foam. he was grateful for the warmth of horse and cloak and hauberk, boots and gloves, even the shield at his back. A land with room to stretch, to run, to try new things.

It was an impression and a memory that stayed with him, whatever season or however often he was sent or had reason to receive the Rohirrim. Whenever he saw or heard Éomer (his younger, yes, with fewer winters than Faramir, but easily Boromir’s match in skill at arms and command of men, in field or hall or … other endeavors) the sense of wind and vigor his friend carried with him sharpened awareness, quickened the blood, lightened his heart. A wind to blow away the cobwebs of fear. It was with such friends and allies that they would withstand the Enemy.

* * *

Gondor smelt of stone; of granite and marble, slate, quartz and good grey flint. The white walls of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith reflected light that tasted of chalk and mica and lightning-glass. Ramparts holding hard against enemies, against the Enemy. The air rang with the working of steel on steel, iron on stone, busy effort of long war: armory, drill, wall repair, near patrol and perimeter. Éomer had been challenged crossing the Mering Stream into Anorien, but not hindered in his passage. Now he stood on stone paving, within stone walls, feeling the bones of the land under his feet. 

Boromir’s home, this city, this obdurate, enduring land. It explained much about his friend. It explained even more about his grandfather, the grandmother he had never met, whose face and bearing those who had known her saw in Éowyn. Thengel had served Turgon Steward here, Théoden King his uncle been born and lived his childhood among these stones, between walls where the wind did not ceaselessly blow, but the Eye of the Enemy ever glared from across the Mountains of Shadow. Proud, but not without reason; strong, but not without resilience; stern, but not without ardor, honor, vulnerabilities and grace.

* * *

When Boromir rode North to seek counsel of Elrond in high summer, he greeted the wind of Rohan with relief after the southern heat; the quiet of the broad, sparsely peopled plains let him unwind, think, begin to prepare himself for the longest journey he had yet taken from his homeland. Dunland and Eriador would be even emptier than Rohan. After the clamor of retaking Osgiliath, the grief of seeing his brother and father so divided (and the fault did not lie with Faramir: no, indeed), space to breathe and anticipate Éomer's good company was balm to a strife-weary soul. 

Boromir stayed over a fortnight in that land, paying his respects to Théoden at Meduseld, enjoying the hospitality of that great hall. After a time he rode West with Éomer, spending as much time as he might in company with his friend. His dreams were not disturbed when he slept within the sound of Éomer’s breath, the scent of his skin, the brush of his beard, the steady press of back to breast, whether bedded on the ground or hayloft or crofter's cottage. The journey was a span of golden summer before the uncertain storm of autumn in the North.

Remember this time, my friend. Remember this pleasure, this taste salt and sweet and bitter, scent of musk and matched desire, the sound of ragged breath, the keen of climax, the gleam of laughing eyes, delight of lips and hands, teeth and tongue, of stretching and being stretched, filling and being filled, striving together as close as two might come. This too is in the service of the light, of life and love, defiance to the Enemy. 

Cross the trickle of the Isen, still feeling the pleasant ache of use. Turn to the long shadow of Methedras, and ride North.

* * *


End file.
